When I arrived, Mom smiled weakly. “Samira told me you didn’t visit because I’d become a burden,” she said.
“That’s a lie. I’ve been trying every day,” I insisted. I promised Mom I’d handle her medical bills directly, keeping her worries at bay.
As her condition worsened, I stayed by her side at the hospital, reading to her, holding her hand, and comforting her. Samira hovered too, but her resentment was clear each time Mom and I shared a moment of laughter. Eventually, she whispered, “Mom’s money is running out.”
“You’ve been bleeding her dry for yourself,” I said firmly. “I’m not covering your lifestyle. This ends here.”
When Mom passed, Samira tried to claim everything with a lawyer’s help. But Dr. Miller, Mom’s doctor, handed me an envelope before I could confront her. Labeled in Mom’s handwriting: For My True Daughter.
Inside was a newer will, leaving every account and asset to me, along with a note:
“I know the difference between real care and selfish motives. That’s why I’m leaving everything to you, Nicole. Keep your kindness. Live with love. I’m proud of you. I love you. Mom.”
Tears blurred my vision as I pressed the note to my chest. Mom had seen it all and protected me, even in death. Samira’s smugness meant nothing.
That night, holding Mom’s letter, I vowed to honor her wishes—living with the same strength and compassion she had shown me. In her final act, Mom reminded me: love and integrity outlast everything else.
